


Fragments of Moments

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Resuscitation [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fragmented Writing Style, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Possible Medical Inaccuracies though I've really done my best, Recovery from gunshot wound, Sherlock's not too sure what's going on, medical complications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For days and days, Sherlock fades in and out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments of Moments

It’s flashes, mostly. Flashes of thought, flashes of feeling, flashes of sounds. Sirens, a hand wrapped around his, not John. John’s not here. John’s at work. (Where is here?) Pain in his throat, harsh and dry and he can’t swallow. Pain in his chest, insistent ache, a stabbing, a deep throb.

The flashes are enough.

* * *

 

“I forbid you to die, Sherlock, do you hear me? I absolutely forbid it. You are to keep your heart beating as long as humanly possible and you are going to wake and life will continue as normal. You can cause all of the trouble for me as you want and I won’t object to it. Just so long as you live. Can you do that for me, brother? Please?” A sigh, and then, what seems like a long time later, hoarsely, quietly, “your loss would break my heart.”

* * *

 

“You should have been more careful, dear. How many times do I have to tell you that? I know it’s a bit late now, but, oh, the lecture I will give you when you wake up, young man. You’re a reckless fool and poor John has to suffer for it now, not knowing.” She’s crying, so she must not really mean what she’s saying. “And don’t think I’ll go easy on you with your experiments after this. You can’t pull the excuse of _but I almost died_ on me. I’ve half a mind to put this on your rent to teach you to be more careful.”

* * *

 

“Hobson managed to jump him and arrest him while we were taken up with you. I suspect Mycroft will intervene soon enough and take him out of the Yard. He’s not exactly going to get off then, is he?” A chuckle. “Anderson says he might swing by to see how you are later. He’s worried about you. Hell, we all are, so you just keep on fighting, right?”

* * *

 

“I love you, son. I know these things tend to be left unsaid, but right now, right now that doesn’t matter. I love you and I always have. I know you’ve put us through a lot, at one time or another, but your mother and I, we wouldn’t change it for the world. You and Mycroft are the greatest blessings we could have ever gotten.” A swallow. “We’ve never been a religious family. I know it wouldn’t make a difference now even if we had been. Your mother, though, she needs something to cling to when she can’t do anything practical. She’s in the chapel now.” The silence that falls is long, protracted, broken only by the whooshing of air. “John’s been here ever since it happened. I know it was only yesterday, of course, but it seems so much longer. No one’s been able to persuade him to leave. Maybe he’s right. I can understand him. And I know you don’t have a choice whether you stay or go, but try to stay, won’t you? For all of us.”

* * *

 

John. Who is this John who keeps getting mentioned? What’s he got to do with anything? He remembers thinking of this John, a long time ago, when everything was red and hurt so badly, and being relieved that he wasn’t there to see it, though he would certainly have liked him to be there. John would take the pain away, somehow. He seems to be good at that.

And the pain lingers. Every time he fades in and out there’s always the pain in his chest. It’s an aching throb, the sort that burns with movement and makes it difficult to settle into a comfortable position. The pain consumes everything.

The pain is why he can’t remember who John is.

* * *

 

“Oh, Sherlock, dear, come back soon, won’t you? Your father’s so worried he keeps forgetting his glasses and won’t read the newspaper even though he always does. Of course, he says it’s because there’s nothing important in the papers anymore, always this and that about who’s wearing what, but I know it’s really because of this. He just doesn’t want me to see that he’s worried. He always forgets that I see everything. I mean, where does he think that you boys got it from? Anyway, I don’t want you worrying a thing about John. You just focus on getting better and we’ll take care of him. I promise.”

* * *

 

That’s the other thing that they all keep mentioning, getting better and fighting . . . something. He’s not sure, to be honest, and possibly they’re all under some sort of delusion. Drugs in the water supply or the fog. He remembers that from somewhere, but he’s not sure where. It must be relevant, though, when it’s stayed with him.

* * *

 

Hands holding him down and _he can’t breathe._ Why can’t he breathe? Voices. Always voices, saying this and that and _what does it matter when he can’t breathe_? Why aren’t they doing anything about that? Surely they’re supposed to. It must be in their job description somewhere and they just keep talking instead, telling him to calm down and how can he calm down when he _can’t breathe_?

A flash of light, colour. A blurred face. And the darkness washes over him.

* * *

 

Now he can breathe. It’s a relief. A comfort, even if breathing hurts. There’s drugs for that. Why isn’t he on them? Or maybe he is and it hurts anyway.

* * *

 

There are fingers on his lips, callused and soft. There is a hand wrapped around his own. His neck tickles where someone is breathing against him. There’s a murmuring, but he can’t make out the words. It’s too low and he’s too tired. But it’s comfortable, and dare he say comforting.

And he understands now who John is, because this must be John. John is the single most important thing in the world. And John won’t leave him on his own.

* * *

 

“Can you squeeze my hand again, Sherlock? Please?” His voice, _John’s_ voice, trembles as he asks, as if he is trying not to get his hopes up. And Sherlock wants to, he really does, but squeezing that hand the first time was tired enough.

He can’t let John down. John’s worried enough about him already.

It’s a tremendous effort, but he thinks, _thinks_ , that he manages to tighten his grip.

That’s more than enough for now.

* * *

 

The light blinds him, and everything is a blur, even John. He lets his eyes slide closed and sighs, because he can do that now. There’s nothing in his throat anymore.

“Rest, Sherlock, okay? Just rest.”

It’s not the first time that he manages to open his eyes, but it’s the time that he remembers.

* * *

 

John is stroking his hair, fingers soft and careful, smiling slightly. And Sherlock manages to smile back, though he doesn’t say anything. John won’t let him speak, afraid that he’ll hurt his chest more. The morphine takes the edge off the pain, but it’s not enough and Sherlock suspects that that’s because of his tolerance to it. But it doesn’t matter. John’s fingers in his hair are a perfect distraction from it, and frankly, even if he was allowed to talk he doesn’t know what he’d say. So he’s content to lie there amongst the tubes and monitor wires and watch John watching him.

This time he manages to stay awake for ten minutes. It’s his longest time yet.

* * *

 

The room is quiet, and he's warm, far too warm. But he's cold too and it's all so confusing. He forces his eyes open - he's getting quite good at this - and is surprised that John isn't here. Instead there is a woman quietly reading a book in John's chair.

It takes him a moment, actually a rather long moment which is in fact a couple of minutes, to recognise her as Molly Hooper.

His throat is still dry and sore, but he's grateful to be wearing a nasal cannula as opposed to an oxygen mask. The effort that would be.

It's enough effort to force out the words.

"Where's . . . John?" His voice is cracked and low, but Molly hears him anyway and smiles as she looks up from her book, face tired and a little worried in spite of the smile. He frowns. Why would she be worried? Could something have happened to John?

"He's gone home to change his clothes and have a shave. Your mother and Mrs Hudson ganged up on him for not taking good enough care of himself."

Well, that’s a relief then. He nods to show that he understands, letting his eyes fall closed. Molly is good and all, but there's no point in staying awake if John's not here.

It's difficult enough to stay awake anyway, especially when his chest hurts like it does now. There has to be a stronger dose that they can give him.

* * *

 

". . . bacterial pneumonia. We expected something like this could happen. It can be a common enough complication after penetrative chest wounds. Of course, we'd hoped to avert it, but the antibiotics should take care of it in no time. . ."

* * *

 

"I'm warning you, Sherlock. Greg and I didn't get ourselves covered in blood and keep you alive for you to die now. You are going to beat this and live because I refuse to deal with the fall-out of watching them bury you again. You are not going to do this to John, all right?" Her voice breaks, filling with tears. "I'm sorry I called you a Freak. If you live I won't be as cruel, I promise. You're really not as bad as I thought. So just live. Please. I know you can if you put your mind to it."

* * *

 

". . . re-intubate him.  His blood pressure is dangerously low. If he does go into cardiac arrest again, more than likely we won't be able to get him back. There's only so much more that he can take and you need to be prepared for the worst. The next twenty-four hours will be critical. . ."

* * *

 

“I’m going to miss you so much, if you don’t pull through. I’ll miss your wit, your violin, your experiments exploding in the kitchen. Well, actually, no, I won’t miss that. Or I might. I don’t know. But I certainly won’t miss you setting the table on fire, or waking me with the violin at three in the morning, or hauling me away from breakfast so you can check some essential piece of information.” John’s voiced is strained with the forced joviality. “Christ, you’re amazing, do you know that? Of course you know that. But you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. There’s nothing that I can say that I haven’t already said before at one time or another, just that you are absolutely exceptional. And if you,” a swallow, “if you don’t make it, then I won’t hold it against you. You’ve done so brilliant so far, and if there’s nothing more that you can do, then all right. I’ll learn to live with it. We all will. But if there’s even a little spark then I hope you’ll give it. I hope you live, and if you don’t then I’ll love you anyway. I always will.” His voice breaks at last, and for a long time there is only quiet crying penetrating Sherlock’s mind.

* * *

 

“He’s stabilising. His temperature’s coming down slowly and the chest tubes are clearing. It seems the antibiotics are finally kicking in.” John’s voice is so relieved that it sounds as if he might start crying again. Sherlock really hopes that he doesn’t.

* * *

 

It’s a slow recovery, a long ascent back towards consciousness. He breaks through several times, but it’s exhausting, blurred impressions once again and tubes everywhere. It feels as if he wouldn’t able to breathe without them. He remembers something like that from before.

One time, John is asleep, head sharing his own pillow. Another time, his mother is beside him, giving John a break, and she smiles reassuringly at him before he passes out again. And his father is there the next time, smelling slightly of cigarette smoke and assuring him that this tiredness that keeps overwhelming him is perfectly all right and he needs all of the rest that he can get. It’s a strange relief to see them all, even if the pain in his chest persists.

But this time when he wakes, John is awake too, slowly tracing his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s arm. His chin is freshly-shaven, hair newly washed, still fluffy after drying, and though he’s tired he smiles.

“How are you feeling?” his voice is low, gentle and soothing, rippling with concern.

“Sore.” Sherlock’s throat feels as if it’s being shredded, but he’s willing to bear with the pain, and his voice is so hoarse it sounds nothing like his own. John presses a button, and Sherlock can feel the drugs coursing into the blood stream. It takes a moment, and then the pain eases. “Thank . . . you.”

John’s smile drops, and he runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s going to take a long time, but you’re going to be all right. I promise, even if you scared us all.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. And the important thing is that you’re going to get better. Anything else we can talk about another time when you’re not falling asleep.”

That last remark is certainly true, and Sherlock’s lips twitch at John’s perceptiveness. “I –“ His mouth is too dry. He breaks off and coughs and John feeds him an ice chip when he catches his breath again afterwards.

As he sucks it slowly, the meltwater easing his throat, John takes the opportunity to berate him. “There’s no need to say anything now. Just go to sleep. I won’t be offended.”

Sherlock swallows the last piece of ice and sighs. “I love you.” His voice is much closer to his own now, and John grins, kissing his forehead.

“I know. I love you too.”

And sleep comes easily then.


End file.
